


Imprint

by akachankami



Series: Absolutely [11]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Post s2 finale, i had a lot of feels between S2 and S3, prompt, unconventional hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-03 18:05:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12151965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akachankami/pseuds/akachankami
Summary: Tumblr prompt: kabby first hug





	1. Imprint I

_Clarke_  is the first thought that makes it out of her mouth when Jackson finishes dressing her stitched wounds. It falls on Bellamy to find an acceptable answer.

Marcus tries to give them space and a semblance of privacy, maybe, mostly because he saw that particular mix of anger and pain and confusion that goes hand in hand with loss shifting behind his eyes. He didn't want to witness any more. That's why he's waiting outside looking at the dying day while the boy – the young man, he corrects himself – explains, once again, why Clarke won't be home. But the commotion inside Medical and Jackson's voice move his legs before his brain, till he's drawing the plastic curtain aside and Abby is stumbling right into him.

He steadies her instinctively, wrapping an arm around her, and feels her struggle to keep upright, shaking her head against his chest.

"Let me go," she orders through her teeth when he doesn't, "You let her leave alone! You let her leave..."

The accusation is thrown at everyone and no one, he knows, even if she's staring right into his eyes, and Bellamy is the one hanging his head, feeling the axe grazing his neck. Raven stares, brow furrowed in concern from her cot across the room where Jackson had been stitching her up as well before Abby tried to... What was she trying to do? Follow her daughter out the gate? Order a search team to gear up and look for Clarke in the woods at night? He's not sure what reaction he was expecting but it wasn't this... frantic and disheveled and heedless.

"Abby?"

Jackson gently tugs at her elbow, softly speaking of teared stitches and hurting herself further, Bellamy shakes his head, contrite. In his arms Abby still fights his hold, and he does what both younger men have been too afraid to do before: he lifts her off the ground.

It's like picking up the pieces of a puzzle that assembles itself.

Without a grip on the floor she almost instantly stills, startled, reverting her efforts to claw at his shoulders, letting her legs dangle a few inches from the ground and the blood already soaking the bandages on her knees slowly dripping down to her bare feet.

" _You_  are not going anywhere like this," he informs her, annoyingly calm.

Her jeans were torn and cut in different places and had been removed to help Jackson's work, so all she had on when she wriggled her way out of the cot covers were her flimsy cotton underwear, shirt, and the borrowed cardigan that doesn't cover her thighs.

Marcus lifts her up more securely in his arms and holds her gaze until finally she stops fighting, chest heaving, sobbing quietly, but her uncoordinated frenzy is gradually placating, the haze in her look washed away by the tears stubbornly gathering at the corner of her eyes.

"She can't be gone, she didn't even say goodbye," she breathes out as tears threaten to spill out of her lashes, "she didn't say goodbye..."

He opens his mouth to speak but he can only hold her tighter as she reads in his eyes what he's unable to voice.

Of course she didn't, Clarke Griffin loved her mother with the same intensity Abby loved her daughter, she couldn't say goodbye, she wouldn't have been able to leave if she'd tried. She would have been forever trapped inside her guilt.

Abby blinks her tears away as he slowly lowers her to the ground and helps her shuffle back to her cot. She still doesn't understand, he knows, but she's giving up this fight. For now.

Jackson skillfully redresses her bandages, Bellamy exchanges a few softly spoken words with Raven before retreating, and Marcus sits by Abby's bedside for a while, still feeling the weight of her sorrow in his own limbs.

As she drifts off into an exhausted, restless sleep, he tries to remember when the shape of her became so familiar to his own, but nothing comes to mind.

It must have been subtle, building up from much smaller gestures, touches his memory erased but his body cherished, collected, stored away year after year, waiting for the moment they'd fill up into a tangible presence.

He falls asleep still at her bedside that night, contemplating the imprint of her soul nestled into his.


	2. Imprint II: Arkadia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: Abby being comfortable around Kane and how he's grown to be her safe place

For the first week she's bedridden and sulky. But there is too much to do and too much to think about during her waking hours to pretend she's not exhausted by dinner time.

She tries not to feel crowded, but between Jackson watching her like a hawk and Marcus coming to Medical with an excuse or another every few hours, on the fourth day she snaps.

"I'd rather you were out there looking for Clarke!" she mutters that morning. She knows Bellamy volunteered to go after her daughter, she knows Marcus let him take Monroe and Miller to the dropship, she knows Marcus scheduled a mission to Mount Weather for supplies, and she knows everyone leaving camp has orders to report about any trace of Clarke. But  _she_ 's forced in bed,  _she_ 's alone and in pain, and she's still chancellor...

Marcus leaves her with his pad and a list of topics to discuss in the next meeting to ponder on, then graciously bows out of her space.

She doesn't see him until after sunset for a disappointingly short briefing.

The next morning he shows her a preliminary map of a bigger settlement he must have worked on the previous night, with notes gathered from different departments on improvements to be done at the crashed Ark and entire new structures to be built, then leaves her to think about it for the rest of the day, which strangely makes her uncomfortable and peeved without her being able to pinpoint it on anything. She blames it on the ache but she looks at the meagre amount of painkillers they brought back from the mountain, and refuses to take any.

Marcus doesn't show up after dinner. Nor the next morning.

Jackson doesn't comment on her subtly veiled annoyance, but lets her grab crutches after lunch to step outside and follow Sinclair to see what the hydraulic system he designed would look like.

Still, Marcus is nowhere to be seen. Something inside of her is still seething in the late afternoon, but she's not sure it's anger anymore. Was she ever angry? She asked him to leave her alone and he _did_ , the cheek of him... What was she expecting?

If she's angry it's at herself.

Following Sinclair's train of thoughts is hard; harder with the persistent pang of pain in her bones and the feeling she's gasping for air. They're nose to the sky, discussing the possibility to strip down what they can reach of the standing part of the Ark wheel before the weather turns to worst, when she hears his voice at the gate. Turning to look at him makes her grit her teeth and blink tears away. It's only slightly anticlimactic to have Sinclair standing there, or Bellamy and Miller a few feet away, or dozens of other people around; he stops in his tracks, ears and tip of his nose red with cold, but still fails to correct the look of worry on his face to something more neutral. He shakes his head woefully.

She didn't even know he was out there looking for Clarke. Her breath catches. Because she asked him to. Stupid, stupid man.

It doesn't matter. Because the pain in her knees is making her nauseous, the chilly wind gave her a headache and the force with which she's gripping the crutches, paired with the cold, cracked the brittle skin at her knuckles and she's sure she'd be embarrassing herself if he weren't there to collect her once again.

She must wobble because Sinclair reaches for her as Marcus does, and she excuses herself back inside the Ark where he follows.

"Don't tell Jackson," she admonishes leaning against the wall, out of breath, "He'll never let me leave the bed again."

"Maybe you shouldn't," he snorts.

"Shut up Marcus." It comes off harsher than intended and her cheeks flush with frustration when he obeys, looking at his boots.

She's never made a secret of her wishes, but she's never had anything granted before. She took it. And now that someone – he, of all people – is trying to give her what she wants, it's... unsettling. It feels wrong. This is not how they work, he should be holding her back, talk her out of nonsense, challenge her...

She feels tears prickle at her eyes. All she has to do is ask. But she's been vocal about space she doesn't need, and silences she doesn't know how to fill, instead.

"I can't take another step," she confesses meekly.

Noting about this feels right. His hands are icy and he's stiff, almost mechanical in his movements, his stubble stabs her cold sensible skin and his breath tickles her, but when he lifts her up she knows she'd never let anyone else do it. She buries her nose in his neck and memorizes the rich smell of earth and mist and the miles he covered for Clarke.

He doesn't carry her to Medical, her room is closer and it has a door, and once it's shut behind them she lets her tears soak the collar of his shirt as he holds her, swaying lightly, till she's drained and lightheaded and limp.

"You'll never find her," she sobs, trying pointlessly not to sound desperate.

His arms tightens around her and he says something that she didn't even consider: "You think we're not looking hard enough." It's a statement she hears from his rib cage, only slightly louder than his heartbeat, and it sounds like defeat and resignation. A failure she has no intention to burden him with.

Abby sniffs and lets out a suffered breath. "No," she answers softly, "She doesn't want to be found."

And she'll have to live with it if it means he'll stand by her side.

A week later, Raven stomps out of the new Medical room on her own two legs with the attitude of someone ready to take over the world (which Abby makes a goal for her own recovery). She comes back to camp after two days, with Monty and Miller, on a humvee, and Marcus draws a bigger map of the area on the meeting room board.

Two weeks after that, there's still no news on Clarke, but there's a piano in the hangar and a couch in the meeting room.

"At least you won't have a crick in your neck next time you fall asleep working, like yesterday," he tells her only half joking.

Instead, she purses her lips and instructs him and Bellamy on which point of the wall exactly the couch should be.

A month later, there's a flu outbreak and she sleeps in Medical most nights, but when she leaves, exhausted, her feet drag her to the meeting room more often than her own bed.

Tonight the light is on but no one's there. The table is scattered with old maps and books and the board is filled with new names and numbers. The kids came home from sector four before sunset. No news.

She spent a whole year living alone, in their quarters up in space, after Jake's execution and Clarke's detention. A whole year surrounded by memories only and the ghost of a life she wanted to bury on the ground. Instead, she's left slowly digging her own grave, working impossible shifts to meet the demands of a community that doesn't feature the only person she's done all of this for. All in all, she doesn't see much improvement.

Abby sits on Marcus' chair and trails her fingers on the pages of an open book on minerals with doodles on the margins and handwritten notes she recognizes as his.  _Arkadia_ , she reads, and for some reason her sleep deprived mind lets her toy with the idea of a mythical peaceful and prosperous place. She smiles wistfully, when her nostrils fill with peppermint.

"Too cliché?" He's standing in the doorway, sipping herbal tea from the mug he went to refill.

"It's a nice utopia for a radioactive wasteland," she concedes turning to look at him.

He sighs, stepping in her space to set the mug next to hers.

She doesn't have to wonder why this is her favorite room, her blanket is neatly folded on the couch, his jacket is draped on the chair, her mug is still on the desk where she left it in the morning, boxes of medicines to arrange are mixing with the flora samples the kids took back so far. And it smells like peppermint whenever he's around.

It's their space. A lived room, not a dead one.

"Should we expect genetic anomalies from the next generation on the ground?" he asks cautiously.

She shakes her head. "I don't know." She can feel the warmth from his body, standing as close as possible without touching, comforting and familiar. "But it's a concern for another day," she says at last, leaving his chair for the couch. She loosens her boots and tugs her legs up under her, lazily browsing the book library on her pad.

She'll be asleep in minutes, swallowed by memories of another time, and he'll cover her with a blanket, letting her rest and pretending not to know why she's not in her bed. He's getting better at that.

She should be careful, she thinks just before falling asleep, he might realize she needs him more than he needs her.


	3. Imprint III: Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: Different point of view

Abby Griffin, he learns, doesn't need anyone's help. All she needs is Clarke Griffin, safe and well, and no one can give her that except Clarke herself.

Marcus watches her drag herself through the day, week after week, burying her fears and her sorrow under everyone else's. There is too much to do at camp to ensure they don't starve or die of exposure during the winter, all he can do is try not to burden her further. He doesn't know exactly what to do to help her so he does what she asks, but even he can see that's not what she needs.

It takes some adjusting at first, on both sides, but it works, and even if her insistence they talk about camp issues while walking seemed like a terrible idea since she was still in recovery, now he understands when to take her hand if she barely flexes her fingers, or when she needs to sit and rest but won't say it out loud, or when she just wants to not be alone with herself.

Abby Griffin doesn't need a friend, but he tells himself he'll be nearby just in case.

Thirty-seven days after the mountain fell, came the snow.

They have a stable, and horses, and walls now, and there is a module they salvaged from the standing wheel of the crashed ship they repurposed as a watchtower. Most nights, you'd find Marcus Kane in the new meeting room, working on maps and reports till Abby comes by to say goodnight, or to share a cup of tea over council's decisions to be made; some nights, when the chancellor sleeps early, he trades shifts, and you'd see him up in the watchtower, looking out to the dark woods covered in snow. Which is where she finds him now.

"What are you hiding from?" she questions a little out of breath, a little chidingly.

"I'm not, I'm on duty," he replies with pursed lips, knowing too well she wouldn't believe him.

"Really, night shift at the watchtower mid-winter?! And you chose it..." she teases. She's still only halfway up the ladder, and it must have cost her to even climb that far – because she's doing better with her injuries, but the snow brought a whole different chill in their bones, he feels it in the wrist he broke as a kid.

"Why are  _you_  here?" he counters propping his rifle up against the parapet to help her up, "I thought you went to bed."

It's so cold their breaths come out in visible puffs and the silence up there is eerie, disturbed only by the seemingly too loud ruffling of their clothes as he lifts her up for the last few steps, almost effortlessly. She's lighter than she has any right to be, and he mentally notes to make sure she doesn't forget to eat her meals in the next few days.

"I did, but I couldn't sleep," she says earnestly, "Miller told me you were here."

He shifts on his feet as they both look out to the silent woods, shoulders bumping gently every so often.

"Anything interesting?" she enquires softly.

Marcus wonders if she can guess he picks the watchtower shift instead of ground patrol hourly rounds in the hope one night he'll be the first to see Clarke coming home. He doesn't tell her, but the wistful look in her eyes as they sweep the darkness beyond the wall tells him she might know anyway.

"Nothing."

She shivers. She doesn't have a coat on and she shouldn't be out so late with only a cardigan and the shawl she keeps on the meeting room couch (for those times she doesn't feel like sleeping). He fusses over her, brushing hands up and down her arms muttering under his breath and offering herbal tea from his thermos, but she smirks at him almost amused and suggests unperturbed: "A gentleman would give me his jacket."

He snorts, disbelieving. "It's cold for me too, you know," he retorts.

But he still unzips his coat and watches her eyebrows raise in surprise and her hands fly at his lapels. "Marcus, I was joking, I don't want your jacket!" she yelps as he pulls her against him and zips up the coat again behind her back, lifting her hair in a ponytail to avoid catching strands in the clutch.

"Better?"

She giggles softly against his chest and he can feel her eyelashes on his collarbone when she snuggles in, sneaking her arms around him inside the coat. "Better," she confirms.

He marks the date in his mental calendar because she never giggled before, not since they landed on Earth, not since they sent the kids down, probably not since Jake...

Abby Griffin only cries behind closed doors but even her giggles sound heartbroken.

It doesn't last long anyway, she is serious when she speaks again: "Housing will be a problem soon enough."

"Did you crawl out of bed and in the snow to talk about building?"

He's not sure which one of them started swaying, but the motion is lulling and her body is warm against his, gradually releasing the tension of the day with steady, tickling breaths mingling and dissolving around them. It feels like they're wrapped in a bubble of darkness and silence, with his arms around her small body and her heartbeat synchronizing with his, and he's suddenly aware of the danger that lies within when she doesn't answer.

What else should they talk about, bundled up in his coat, watching the woods with mixed hopes? Not the way she grips his shirt, not her lips ghosting on his throat, not how everything about her affects him.

She sighs instead, burying the cold tip of her nose in the hollow of his neck. "I don't want to sleep, but Jackson banned me from Medical till dawn," she admits quietly after a while.

Abby Griffin doesn't need a lover, she needs a night of rest without nightmares about her daughter.

"You haven't slept in at least twenty-seven hours," he reminds her.

She lifts her head to look at him with a little huff: "Are you tracking me, Kane?" she asks barely concealing an impudent, knowing smirk.

He chuckles at the familiar phrasing and mocking tone, not daring to look down at her tired eyes and pursed lips.  _Someone has to_ , he thinks holding her closer. She doesn't even have time or energy to neatly braid her hair since they crash landed, she just lets it fall on her shoulders in a tangle of untamed frizzy curls. Like Clarke did.

When the snow melts, they start building huts and cabins and draw a patch for growing vegetables. They even figure out a project for communal showers.

Marcus tries not to make it a distraction, but whenever she sits at his desk to go over reports in the meeting room he can't help lingering near, enjoying the perfume of chamomile that she seems to carry. She started washing her hair with it, because it's supposed to make it blonder, lighter – like Clarke's – but she doesn't let herself have time to dry it out in the sun like everybody else and hastily ties it in a ponytail when it's still wet to go back to work.

Abby Griffin is desperately grasping at the dreams she once had, burying the realities of what they are living with exhaustion, and Marcus sometimes tries to imagine a life where Jake Griffin made it to the ground instead, and Clarke is back home in her mother's arms, because that's the only image of a happy, smiling Abby Griffin he can concoct.

He can only watch her dance around him at her pace, stealing glances and whiffs of chamomile from time to time, trying to make it up to her for not being the one she wants by being the one she needs.


End file.
